Pirates
by Captain Frankle
Summary: Sherlock is bored and suggests playing pirates with John. A story filled with mild Johnlock, wine and fake bearded jellyfish.
1. Chapter 1

'Your brother told me something rather interesting the other day,' John said, newspaper and tea in hand.

'Really,' Sherlock said, not moving from his seat in the couch.

'Yeah, he said you wanted to be a pirate.'

Sherlock sat up, his eyes wide and a faint blush of embarrassment over his nose.

'Well, yes, it seemed like a sensible career choice at the time,' he muttered, swinging his legs over the side of the sofa.

'I thought it was brilliant,' John said, smiling at the consulting detective over the top of his reading material.

Sherlock nodded and then his face lit up.

'John!' he cried, jumping onto John's lap, causing a small wave of tea to fall over the doctor, 'Do you want to play pirates?'

John sat there for a while. Play pirates? With Sherlock?

'Sherlock, you're a grown man now, why on earth would you want to play pirates?'

Sherlock deflated slightly, but still carried enough enthusiasm to make John a little nervous.

'Because John, I never had anyone to play pirates with, just Mycroft,' he said, his face frowned a little at the mention of his older brother, 'And he was never really that fun.'

'He probably had more important things to do, like running the country,' John smiled at the thought of little Sherlock tormenting his brother with a cutlass, 'Just like how you should be doing some case solving or something.'

'But John, there's nothing to do! I'm so bored,' At which point Sherlock rolled off John's lap and onto the floor, a hand placed over his eyes and a dramatic sigh escaping from his lips, 'I might shoot the wall again if you refuse.'

John let out a sigh of his own. His flat mate was ridiculously clever but equally as childish when it came to things like this.

'Fine Sherlock, fine. We'll play pirates, but only if it'll stop you from being such a child!'

Sherlock leapt up, all previous traces of his anguish gone. John knew he probably shouldn't encourage him but it was nice to see Sherlock excited about something that wasn't a dead body or a clever serial killer.

'Yes, wait here one second,' Sherlock scampered up the stairs, an unfamiliar spring in his step.

John sighed again. This was going to be an interesting afternoon.

When Sherlock returned, his arms were full of blankets and pillows, the pile topped with a very authentic looking pistol.

'Jesus Sherlock, did you bring down your entire bed?' John questioned, finally setting down his newspaper entirely and raising from the comfort of his armchair.

'Well we need a ship don't we,' Sherlock drawled in his 'seriously-John-have-some-common-sense' voice.

Dropping the various sheets, Sherlock busied himself with constructing their 'ship' using chairs and cushions from the sofa. That's when John realised he'd also changed his clothes. What was once a buttoned up shirt tucked into very flattering trousers was now a pair of 3/4 length black trousers, complete with spotty patches of fabric on the knees, and a navy and white striped short sleeved t-shirt that pulled a little over his body due to it's small size.

'Sherlock, is that the outfit you used to wear when you were younger?' questioned John.

The man in question looked up from his constructing, rolled his eyes and returned to his work.

'Of course John,' he said from under the pile of bedthings, 'I know I was a tall and lanky child but why _else_ would it fit so snugly?'

John chuckled a little, letting himself get lost in Sherlock's pirate world logic. It was quite sweet actually. If John didn't know Sherlock any better, he'd say he seemed just like a very childish man with a wild imagination. But he did and so he knew he'd have to entertain Sherlock with this whole game at least until he got bored and felt the urge to shoot the wall.

A pile of clothes and a pirate hat landed at John's feet, stirring him from his Sherlock-related musings.

'What's this then?'

'It's your outfit,' Sherlock replied.

'My outfit?'

'Yes, and your compass: you get to steer the ship.'

'So you're going to be the captain?'

'Of course John, this is MY ship.'

John picked up the clothes, walking quietly to the bathroom and slipping them on. A pair of long trousers and a stripy top, just like Sherlock's but with red stripes instead of navy blue ones. He put on the hat and inspected himself in the mirror. He felt like a father being forced to play with their overly demanding child.

Walking back to Sherlock, he gasped as he realised that their living room had been taken over by a make-shift ship. A plate was propped up against the window, acting as a sort of steering wheel with the view of the street below as the horizon. Sherlock had somehow attached sheets along the celing of the flat and made a small blanket-y cushion-y cabin in the space between that and the kitchen. The sides of the 'ship' were lined with more cushions and turned over chairs that also blocked the door, making John worry about what would happen if anyone needed them.

That thought instantly vanished when he was grabbed round the waist and a cutlass was held at his throat. John knew it was plastic but he was still surprised.

'So Captain Watson, what are you doing aboard my fine vessel?' Sherlock's voice whispered into his ear, the 'blade' of the sword pressing lightly against his neck.

John decided this would be over with more quickly and easily if he just played along. Taking a deep breath, he got into character.

'Why Captain Holmes, I only wished to tell you of my surrender and that I wish to be a member of your crew.'

'Is that so?' Sherlock said, his voice brimming with triumph despite the fact it was a pretend white flag, 'Well then Watson, you can steer this sorry excuse for a ship, it's tiresome always trying to do it myself.'

And so they spent the rest of the afternoon playing in their make-shift pirate den with John steering them to foriegn lands and Sherlock telling him not to be ridiculous and go somewhere where they could do something useful. Half way through their day, Sherlock produced a small spyglass which he then used to spy on people in the street below and describe their life stories but with a pirate twist.

'That scurvy dog worked in a small trading company nearby judging by the size of his peculiar square shaped case. His complexion tells us that he is rid of scurvy and yet has suffered from another illness of the skin. His lack of parrot means he has a small cat, probably a tabby judging from the scratches on his hands.'

John laughed along at these ridiculous deductions, some of which he believed, others he didn't and that in itself made Sherlock continue. The whole afternoon was a blissful mess of pirates and distant lands, accompanied by missing treasures and beasts, each adventure relating a little to a case or event in the pair's history. They lost themselves in this world.

It was getting dark by the time Sherlock was beginning to look like he was tiring of the activity which, despite the fact he was having fun, relieved John a little: he had been so worried he'd get caught.

'Watson, shall we retire to the Captain's cabin with the plundered wine?' Sherlock asked as he perched on the overturned arm chair.

'Of course Captain Holmes,' John said, setting down the 'steering wheel' of the ship against the window and entering the store of pillows and duvets. Sherlock handed John a bottle of wine.

'No rum I'm afraid,' he said, taking a small swig from his own bottle.

'Holmes, you know I can't drink this,' John said, swirling the contents around the bottle before setting it in his lap.

'Neither can I,' Sherlock said, smiling a lopsided grin at John and taking another mouthful of the stuff.

Soon, both their bottles were half empty and they were engaged in some conversation about John and his sister.

'I mean, don't get me wrong, I love Harry,' John said, his eyes closing slightly before continuing, 'But she can be a PAIN IN MY ARSE.'

Sherlock giggled a little.

'Mycroft is like that too,' he said in between his hiccups, 'Always 'working on this' and 'working on that'. He never had time to play pirates the sod.'

Sherlock spoke the last words with a certain emphasis just in case Mycroft had planted security cameras in the flat again. John laughed a little, and then a little more until suddenly he errupted into a full blown fit, shortly joined by Sherlock. The two men collapsed onto each other, their chests heaving and their alcohol-tinted breath swirling together.

'Thanks for today,' Sherlock said, nuzzling against his friend in an almost cat like way, 'I've never had a first mate before.'

'That's funny Sherlock, a first mate as in pirate-wise and friend-wise. You're so punny Captain!'

John started giggling again at his own joke and due to the vibrations coming from his stomach, Sherlock couldn't help but laugh too.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. John shot up, instantly sobering and remembering that the chair was in the way while Sherlock continued to laugh against his chest, despite now being vertical.

'Aw shit, I bet it's Mrs Hudson asking if we want tea,' John muttered, to which Sherlock also sobered. Climbing off John, Sherlock made his way to the door, closely followed by his pirate friend.

'Who is it?' he asked, leaning against the door and overturned chair as he was incapable of standing on his own. John came up behind him and leant against him, his ability to stand also reduced thanks to the alcohol. The contact left Sherlock feeling a little more woozy than he had been previously and he resisted the urge to lean back against the small man supporting himself on his back.

'It's Lestrade, open up,' came the voice from the other side of the door.

'No, this is my pirate ship,' Sherlock said, causing John to snort, which in turn made Sherlock start giggling.

'Er, Sherlock, are you ok?'

'Yes, now go away.'

'I need to talk to you, I have a really interesting case.'

'Come back later you fake-bearded jellyfish, I'm busy.'

Pause.

'Ok, I'm opening the door.'

Sherlock turned to John.

'There's no way he could break past our defences Watson.'

At that moment, the door was pushed open with such force that the chair was sent sliding across the floor with John and Sherlock falling onto each other. Their fall was broken by a few pillows but Sherlock's bones had a habit of jutting out in awkward places and John sat up to realise that his flat mate's elbow was in his crotch. Pushing the consulting detective up, he looked to Lestrade to see he had adopted his 'I'm-going-to-ignore-this-for-the-case' look.

'Sherlock, I'm going to leave this paper work in your kitchen,' Lestrade started, only to realise that the way to the kitchen was blocked by the captain's cabin, 'I'm going to leave these papers here and I need you to look through them.'

He placed the stacks of paper on the window sill by the plate. He paused for a little while, taking in the sheets and two crumpled figures on top of each other on the floor.

'I hope you have a lovely evening,' he said, before walking to the door, slipping through and closing it behind him. There was another pause as the two pirates listened for the sound of Lestrade leaving the apartment. The door on the ground floor clicked and John and Sherlock burst into laughter, tears of joy rolling down their faces as they split their sides.

After recovering, they made their way back to the cabin to finish the wine.

'Why'd he leave?' John asked Sherlock later as he looked at the ceiling of the make-shift finishing the bottles, they'd tried to walk up the stairs only to have Sherlock instantly collapse into a fit of giggles. This was much more comfortable anyway with John's head on a pillow, Sherlock laying on him and the two of them covered by the biggest duvet the could find. It was like a sleepover. But with grown men. And wine.

'He obviously had a bet with someone that we have some weird kind of fetish,' Sherlock answered very matter-of-factly from his place sprawled across John's stomach, 'Although I can't think why he wasn't surprised at the pirate-y state of our flat.'

'Hmm...I think he's just used to us doing weird things,' John replied, yawning slightly, 'Anyway, we're not a couple.'

'We are two grown men sleeping together in the same bed though,' Sherlock said, his eyes drooping slightly.

'It's not a bed Sherlock, it doesn't count,' John said, ruffling his friend's hair, 'Goodnight.'

John settled deeper into the covers, his legs bending slightly, allowing Sherlock's to slide underneath as his toes had previously been sticking out from the end of the duvet.

'It's Captain Holmes to you Watson,' the consulting detective replied, burying his face into the fabric of the t-shirt he had given John, feeling the alcohol and his first mate's warmth lull him into, for now, a deep and warm sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade sighed. Letting out the breath of air, he quickly sucked one in, held it for as long as possible and then sighed again.

Long day.

A case concerning a mysterious mug, an old millionaire's wife and an abandoned camper van had left his head spinning and ears pounding. Time to go to Sherlock Holmes.

He let out another sigh. It's not like he hated the man, he just acted like such a child, tossing insults like they were unwanted playthings. Maybe one day, John would be able to make him into not just a great, but good man: everyone at the station knew it was only a matter of time until they came out as a couple. The fact that the two were so oblivious to it meant that a lot of bets had been tossed around Lestrade's various colleagues.

£10 to bet on the day they would come out.

£20 to bet on how long they had already been in a secret relationship.

£50 if you guessed a fetish and got it right.

That last one had caused some ridiculous bets to be made. Each bet got placed in it's own box, all being held in one of the vaults at the station. They all knew that it wasn't what the vaults were for, but in Sherlock-fashion, everyone ignored the rules and carried on with the bets anyway. Lestrade, although not into the idea of betting, had decided to go for it, betting that Sherlock and John had a pirate fetish. He didn't really know why he had done this, it just seemed like a good idea at the time and certainly more likely than some of the other officer's suggestions (dead bodies, severed hands and jam were just a few).

Lestrade stood from his desk, gathering together the papers on what they were nicknaming the 'Murdering Millionaire's Mug' case. Leaving the station, he pulled his jacket towards his body, not wanting to let in the slightly nippy November air.

Taking a car, he drove to 221B Baker Street, hoping that Sherlock would be in one of his better moods.

Knocking on the door of his flat, he heard mumbles from the other side, and then:

'Who is it?' The slightly slurred response from the other side of the door made Lestrade suspicious, but he ventured on.

'It's Lestrade, open up,' the man replied, trying to use those deductive skills that Sherlock had always been so happy to show off in his own favor. It sounded like he was drunk. But Sherlock never got drunk: it didn't make sense.

'No, this is my pirate ship.'

The sentence was followed by a snort that Lestrade assumed was from John and then a...giggle?

'Er, Sherlock, are you ok?'

'Yes, now go away.'

Lestrade didn't really want to deal with this childish behavior when there was a murderer on the loose but, due to the fact he wasn't even being let inside the flat, he was really in no position to tell Sherlock off.

'I need to talk to you, I have a really interesting case.'

A bit of a lie: it was hardly interesting, they were just missing out something, a vital fact they needed to connect the dots and the only person who could do that was currently talking as if he were a pirate.

'Come back later you fake-bearded jellyfish, I'm busy.'

A pause.

'Ok, I'm opening the door.'

Lestrade barely gave the two behind the door time to move out the way before he shouldered it, knocking whatever was in the way of the entry (a chair it seemed) out of it's path.

Looking up, Lestrade saw the pair, sprawled over each other, Sherlock's elbow in John's crotch, both of them in stripy shirts and other pirate garb. He took in the flat: sheets and pillows strewn everywhere, a small 'den' at the back of the room. Lestrade had that bet in the bag.

Adopting his 'I'm-going-to-ignore-this-for-the-case' look he used for times like this, he produced the papers.

'Sherlock, I'm going to leave this paper work in your kitchen,' he said, walking over to the kitchen, only to realize it was entirely blocked off by sheets, 'I'm going to leave these papers here and I need you to look through them.'

Leaving the papers on the window sill by a plate that was obviously acting as some kind of steering wheel, he turned to face the two fully-grown men who had probably pretending to sail a ship for the past few hours.

'I hope you have a lovely evening,' he said before walking to the door, slipping through and closing it behind him. As soon as he left, he heard the other two erupt into raucous laughter, the sound of it carrying through the walls and into Lestrade's ears.

He made his way to the stairs, stepped through the door and made sure he was out of earshot before bending over and letting out a howl of laughter. Pirates. He continued to stand there, causing some passers-by to send him disapproving looks. But he didn't care. Pirates. Bloody pirates.

The next day, Lestrade was in the office early, a smile on his face and a spring in his step. He texted Sherlock asking if he'd read over the papers. Seconds later, he got his reply.

John and I will be at crime scene - SH

Lestrade made his way quickly to the crime scene, ready to see the pair in all their hungover glory. Stepping under the police tape, he was surprised to find John smiling at him, hands in his pockets against the typically english wind and cheeks flushed a little: completely normal. Sherlock on the other hand, looked slightly worse for wear.

His hair stuck up in odd angles all around his head, his eyes were tinted red and he seemed to be using John's shoulder for support. Despite his obviously hungover appearance, it seemed like his mind was as sharp as ever as he rattled on about the incompetence of the police force.

'Ah, Lestrade, you're here,' Sherlock said after finishing his speech, 'Please tell these imbeciles that I'm allowed into the crime scene.'

'There's no way we're letting that freak in here when he's obviously been getting drunk,' Donovan said, arms folded in a defensive position.

'Well done Sally, if only you could apply your deduction skills to the case instead of me, maybe you would actually be getting somewhere.'

Lestrade, looking between the two smiled at the memory of how he'd found Sherlock and John last night. Their apparent easiness with each other this morning made him strangely happy for them: the added bonus of winning all that money was just the perfect way to top it all off.

'Tell them John,' Sherlock said suddenly, hoping that using the winey voice on John would mean that he would back him up on his cause, 'Tell them how I'm completely capable of solving this case no matter what my physical appearance should suggest.'

John stood there for a moment, his eyes scanning Sherlock's face with light concentration, probably just to annoy Sherlock even more: it was obvious that the consulting detective wasn't in this sort of needy mood very often and John seemed to want to draw it out as long as possible.

'Well, I would say that the captain got a little too merry last night and that some rest in his quarters is probably a preferable action,' John said, never taking his eyes off the widening smile on Sherlock's face, 'But unfortunately, he seems to be just as much of a prat as usual. I'd let him onto this case.'

There was a moment of silence in which everyone tried to process what was going on while Sherlock stood there, grinning like an idiot. Suddenly, he began to laugh, a sound that rarely seemed to be shared with the police force, only stunning them even more.

'Very good Watson, I knew there was a reason that you were my first mate.'

Sherlock leaned into John a little further, his arm that had been supporting him on John's shoulder now slinked round the back of his neck as they walked past the silent Donovan and into the house. The last glimpse Lestrade got of them before they disappeared into the hallway was of John taking the hand that was wrapped around him and holding it close to him.

He smiled. It was about time.

A/N Big thanks to Jason Layton who gave me the idea for this part of the fic (Hope it lives up to expectations XD). Thanks for reading!


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